


maybe together we can get somewhere

by yesterday



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Jealousy, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-20 15:21:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13149432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterday/pseuds/yesterday
Summary: The Pacific Northwest regional werewolf gathering convenes every five years at a different location, and according to Peter, it’s where the werewolves and pack adjacents gather to network and hobnob.“Which is shorthand for gathering gossip,” Peter says. “And a subtle way of checking up on the packs closest to your territory; making sure nobody’s about to go rogue and expose the supernatural community or draw hunter attention. But networking does happen. Plenty of alliances are forged there, and just as many feuds.”“That doesn’t explain why I have to go with you,” Chris says, because asking a hunter to a werewolf gathering doesn’t make any damn sense.The thing is, even though he and Peter have been on and off for the past twenty years, they aren’t together. They fuck sometimes, that’s all.They don’t go away for extended weekend trips up to Oregon together, yet here they are.





	maybe together we can get somewhere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Claire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claire/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, Claire!! I think I ended up deviating a bit from your original prompt, but I hope you enjoy this nonetheless. 
> 
> Warning: descriptions of hunting, nothing graphic, but it's there. Also, pretend this takes place sometime in season 3, or some mythical post-canon.

The Pacific Northwest regional werewolf gathering convenes every five years at a different location, and according to Peter, it’s where the werewolves and pack adjacents gather to network and hobnob.

“Which is shorthand for gathering gossip,” Peter says. “And a subtle way of checking up on the packs closest to your territory; making sure nobody’s about to go rogue and expose the supernatural community or draw hunter attention. But networking does happen. Plenty of alliances are forged there, and just as many feuds.” 

“That doesn’t explain why I have to go with you,” Chris says, because asking a hunter to a werewolf gathering doesn’t make any damn sense. 

Peter pulls his jeans on and Chris traces his eyes over the curve of his ass from where he’s still sprawled out on the bed.

“Because there’s no requirement that the alpha has to attend, but it’s protocol to bring at least one human pack member along. For balance. You’ll be there as part of the Hale-McCall pack, not as an Argent.” 

“Scott asked you to do this?” Chris says.

Peter rolls his eyes. “Like Scott even knew about it before he got the letter. Derek asked me. He probably remembered that I used to go sometimes.” 

And Derek isn’t the schmoozing type, but Peter is. Having Peter go rules out a good chunk of the human side of the pack willing to go with him, and most of the kids have school anyway. Knowing Peter, he’s asking Chris because Chris' the most capable of handling himself in case something went awry, or because if something did go wrong, Peter wouldn’t give a damn about what happened to him. 

Better him than Stiles or Lydia. 

“Fine,” he said. “Send me the details.” 

He’s survived Peter Hale before, and he can do it again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The thing is, even though he and Peter have been on and off for the past twenty years, they aren’t together. They fuck sometimes, that’s all. 

They don’t go away for extended weekend trips up to Oregon together, yet here they are. Standing in the middle of the cabin they were assigned to after checking in. At least there are two beds. The entire area is laid out like a holiday getaway rather than the rough and tumble campsites Chris used to frequent on hunting trips with Gerard. From an anthropological standpoint, this is an opportunity no other hunter has ever had before. They’ve only ever guessed at the existence of these gatherings; it’s possibly the best kept secret he’s ever been privy to. 

There’s a map on desk, along with a complimentary basket of snacks and water. Chris goes for the map, examining the layout of the grounds. It isn’t complex. Cabins, a main reception area, a dining hall, and a large stretch of open woods. Chris saw most of it on the way in. 

“Food is provided,” Peter says from where he’s unpacking on the bed furthest from the door. “But there are two main group hunts: one on the first day, and one on the last.” He glances at his watch. “It starts at six o’clock. Try to stay out of trouble until then.” 

Chris snorts, and slips out of the cabin. Between the two of them, he isn’t the one with a penchant for getting into trouble. 

The pack representatives trickle in at a steady stream while Chris scouts out the area, drifting around like he’s just checking things out. A few of the friendlier faces nod or smile at him, and it unsettles him, just a little, how he can’t tell human from werewolf, but he knows there are wolves mixed into the lot. He catches himself studying faces, trying to see whether there are any he recognises, and realises with an uneasy start that he’s doing what Gerard would have done: using this as an opportunity to mark out possible troublemakers without any proof. 

Is this a test? Did Peter bring him here on purpose to see what he would do? Trust is thin between them. Has been for a while now, but Chris thought they were getting somewhere. 

Chris shakes his head, and heads back towards the cabin. He hears the low glide of Peter’s voice in the opposite direction, and spots him chatting with a man (human? werewolf?) who has one foot in Peter’s personal space. 

“You’ve been busy,” Peter says. “When did you become alpha?” 

“A few years ago. Things have just calmed down. I heard a rumour you might show up this year, so I couldn’t pass up coming.” The werewolf smiles, raking his eyes over Peter in a way that has Chris bristling. “You look good, considering what I heard.” 

“And what did you hear?” Peter says.

“Pretty impressive things. Who’s your friend?” 

Chris stands at Peter’s shoulder. He smiles at the other werewolf, and holds out his hand. “Chris. I’m with the Hales.” 

The handshake is firm without being overbearing. “Henry Dubois.” 

“Henry has territory in Washington,” Peter says. “Who did you bring with you?” 

“Cassandra,” Henry says. “She’ll be glad to see you again.” 

“She hates me,” Peter says, but his eyes are crinkled at the corners. Chris is struck by the realisation that Peter has people he knows outside of the pack; people he seems to like rather than tolerate. It’s— jarring. 

“Your wife?” Chris asks. 

“No, my sister. She thinks Peter’s a bad influence.” 

Peter laughs-- actually laughs at that, smiling at Henry. “She isn’t wrong.” 

Henry claps a hand on Peter’s shoulder and squeezes. “Well, how about I be the bad influence for once? I’ll buy you a drink after dinner.”

“The bar is free,” Peter says, eyebrows raised. 

“After dinner,” Henry repeats. “I’ll find you.” He nods at Chris, and heads off. 

Both Peter and Chris watch him go. Peter’s expression is wistful, and Chris doesn’t like it. He touches Peter on the same shoulder that Henry did, subtly (or maybe not so subtly, from how Peter relaxes into it) overwriting the other werewolf’s scent. He heads back towards the cabin, and Peter follows. 

Peter’s swapping his shirt for an older one, and Chris is checking his crossbow-- the single weapon he had been permitted to bring in for the hunts-- when he asks, “When did you go to Washington?” 

It isn’t the question he really wants to ask. 

“Years ago,” Peter says. “I think it must have been summer break while I was in college. I took a road trip.” 

“I didn’t know you did that,” Chris says. 

“Well,” Peter says, “you were busy with your own life. Why would you know what I was doing then? Let’s go.” 

Where, to Washington? Chris almost asks before he realises Peter’s talking about the hunt. It’s six o’clock on the dot when they make it to edge of the woods. There are at least a hundred people present, and the air is tense with anticipation. During Peter’s explanation, he said that the werewolves do most of the hunting, but the humans run with them, and plenty of them hunt too in varying skill levels. 

“It’s deer and elk season in Oregon.” This year’s organiser is a local alpha, Peter mentioned, named Lillian Vo. “But tonight’s hunt isn’t limited to big game, unless everyone wants to eat venison for the rest of the weekend. There’s plenty of small game. Rabbits, quails, wild turkey, partridges. Ducks, if you’re up for a dip or a challenge. Three ground rules: no more than one big game per pack; no hunting each other; and last of all, don’t hunt in excess. There will be one more hunt on the last day, and we have catering to hold us out in case we run low on fresh meat. Understood?” 

A general murmur of assent runs through the crowd. 

“All right,” she says, “on my count.” 

On three, everyone fans out into the woods. The same excitement and anticipation surges through Chris. The promise of a good hunt. 

His feet are light and quiet in the dark woods, moonlight streaming down from overhead, stars peeking through the branches of the dense foliage. Peter is a shadow at his side. The forest is massive, maybe even bigger than the preserve. They run into another group once, then nothing. Peter can probably hear the rest of them, but they aren’t the focus of his attention.

He’s crouched down beside Chris instead, shoulder to shoulder, examining the tracks and trampled leaves of something large. They’ve already bagged a few smaller animals, and stashed them away for later retrieval. 

“Verdict?” Peter asks. His eyes are almost too bright to pass for human. 

“Probably a buck,” Chris says. Peter’s breath is warm against his jaw. “Too heavy to be a doe. The ground’s dry, so the prints aren’t clear enough. Could be a young elk.” 

He stood up, following the tracks with the flashlight in his hand. Peter kept slightly behind him. They’re ten minutes in when Peter stops, head cocked to the side. “I hear it. Fifty yards away, give or take. Let’s split up.” 

“Get it from behind,” Chris says, and Peter takes off. 

Chris follows the tracks until he has the buck in sight. It's grazing, and he lifts his crossbow, sighting it. He sees Peter lurking behind it. Something spooks it, and it runs. Chris fires, the arrow going clean through its throat. The buck stumbles, but doesn't fall. Peter's at its heels, and Chris keeps pace with them, breath a white film before him. Adrenaline from the hunt courses through him. He skids to a halt when Peter leaps, landing on the buck’s back. Peter rips its throat out. The deer fumbles for a few more steps, and drops like a marionette with its strings cut, Peter still astride.

Blood is spattered on his face. Peter looks wild, and when he turns to Chris, his grin is full of savage triumph. He's wiping his hands clean when Chris grips Peter's chin, tilting his face up and tracing the curve of his lower lip, smearing the still warm blood over it. Peter's eyes are swallowed up in darkness. His tongue darts out, licking the tip of Chris' thumb. Chris leans down. 

“Damn, looks like you beat us to it,” says a voice from a few feet away. 

Chris jerks back. He makes out the dim shape of Henry, the alpha from earlier, and another body beside him. Peter rises, and he’s already moving out of Chris' reach. 

“The early wolf gets the deer,” Peter says. “Hello, Cassandra. Henry.” 

Cassandra sniffs. “You aren’t dead.” 

“It didn’t stick,” Peter says. 

The clouds shift across the sky, and just enough light filters into their patch of the woods for Chris to see the family resemblance between the two Dubois siblings, both blonde and green-eyed. 

“You always had a knack for getting yourself out of trouble,” Cassandra says. She glances at the deer, and the bolt sticking out from its throat, then to Chris, and the crossbow in his hands. “Nice shot.” 

“Thanks,” Chris says. It comes out gruff. 

“How about we give you a hand with the buck?” Henry says. “Time’s about up anyway, no point in trying to track something else down.” 

“You just want to take partial credit,” Peter says. 

“Well, it looks bad for an alpha to come back without an impressive kill,” Henry says. 

“I think we’ll manage,” Chris says. He moves the deer, and cocks an eyebrow at Peter. 

“Be my guest,” Peter says. “I did all the heavy lifting already.” 

Chris snorts, and starts field dressing the deer without complaint. Peter did most of the birds earlier, and he did chase the damn thing down. 

“C’mon, Henry. Maybe we’ll get something on the way back.” Cassanda’s already tromping off in the opposite direction.

“Good luck with that,” Peter says.

“All right, all right. See you two back at camp,” Henry says. The two siblings disappear back into the underbrush. 

Chris concentrates on gutting the deer, hands moving methodically and precisely. It’s been a while since he hunted something of the not supernatural variety, but muscle memory sticks. He can feel Peter’s eyes on him. Sometimes he wishes he could pry open Peter’s mind and shake out all the thoughts into one pile for his perusal. Other days he’d settle for a werewolf’s nose. Neither are an option, so he settles for his words. “What?”

“I’m enjoying the view.” 

Chris snorts. He finishes cleaning and wrapping the deer. They let it hang for a while, before heading back towards the main camp with all their game in tow. 

The clearing at the edge of the wood where the hunt started from is a hive of activity. Chris could smell the barbeque before they even reached it. They’re caught up in the whirlwind of it, the buck and the assortment of game birds relieved from them in exchange for plates of food. They sit next to each other at one of the picnic tables scattered around, Peter’s thigh pressed against Chris' own, and for the first time since they got here, Chris relaxes. The food is good, and there is no sign of either Henry or Cassandra. Just werewolves and humans mingling together, like a big neighborhood block party. 

Maybe this is what the Hales were like before the fire.

The creeping guilt and unease eats at Chris until Peter leans in close to Chris, murmuring against his ear. Then that’s all he can focus on.

“That's Harper and her wife Sydney from British Columbia,” he says, naming and pointing out the few in the crowd he recognised. Some of them would turn and wave at Peter, or pointedly ignore him. 

Chris is fascinated. How could he not be? This is Peter in an entirely different habitat, relaxed and laid back. No judging eyes here, and no one to ask why they're sitting so closely together, because werewolves are a touchy crowd, and Chris noticed it. Peter's gradually lowering guard, how much more freely he touches Chris now that they're out of Beacon Hills. He likes it. Likes it a lot. 

Likes it enough to drape an arm over Peter's shoulders and leave it there when a few more people join them at their table. Peter glances at him, but doesn’t say anything. In fact, he makes himself comfortable, and Chris is left wondering if it’s because they’re supposed to be pack, and this show of solidarity is to keep face. Peter might not care about Scott, but he cares about Derek. Any infighting could be seen as weakness or dissent in the pack. 

The entire evening passes in a haze of surrealism for Chris, who ends up in a conversation with several people that meanders from questions about his pack (how long he’s been with them, why he joined) to an earnest discussion with a young women on whether crossbows are better for beginners, or traditional bows. He doesn’t notice Henry’s approach until Peter slides out from under his arm and gets up. 

“No, stay,” Peter says when Chris moves to rise. “Finish your conversation. I’ll see you back at the cabin.” 

Chris watches Peter leave with Henry, something very much like jealousy bubbling up in him when Peter smirks at the alpha. 

“Are you worried?” Taylor asks. 

“About what?” Chris says. 

She nods at Peter and Henry’s retreating backs, the distance between them minimal. 

“No,” he lies. She’s human, she can’t hear it in his heartbeat, and anyway, Chris has long since figured out how to circumvent that little trick. “Why would I be?” 

“I heard he used to be really popular at these things,” she says, “like, years ago, before I started coming. Everyone knew he wasn’t happy where he was, and he’s smart. Some of the smaller packs were trying to recruit him.”

Chris fails to conceal the surprise on his face, and Taylor laughs at him. 

“What, did you think we’re all just here to sing Kumbaya? This is the best place to look for another pack, and for packs looking for more betas. And all the other stuff, like making alliances. Or,” she lowers her voice to a whisper, “hookups.” 

“You’re a little young for me,” Chris says, arching an eyebrow. 

Taylor snorts, and punches his arm. “Yeah, and you’re ancient for me. I’m talking about Peter and his friend. They’re totally flirting.” 

“Peter does that with everyone.” 

“Do they flirt back? They probably do, right? He’s kind of bad boy hot, if you’re into that.” 

Chris thinks of Peter and the grotesque bulk of his alpha shift, methodically murdering everyone involved in the Hale fire. Peter luring and terrifying a group of teenagers in a school. But he also thinks of Peter, sixteen and fresh-faced, the curl of mischief always just under the surface, and the aggravating _I know something you don’t_ expression that was a near permanent fixture. He thinks of how Peter laughed until he was doubled over after shoving Chris into the lake in the preserve, and Chris surfaced, dripping and furious. He thinks of Peter and the flashes of vulnerability that peek through when Peter is under him, gasping his name. 

“Do they lace the drinks here?” he asks. 

It turns out they do. Chris passes more than one tipsy werewolf on his way into the dining hall where the bar is located, and finds Peter wrangling Henry towards the door. 

“Think about what I said.” 

“I will,” Peter says. He’s flushed, but steadier on his feet than the alpha he’s half carrying. 

Henry grins, and plants a sloppy kiss against Peter’s cheek, saying something too low for Chris to catch. Peter blinks, and his flush grows darker, expression considering. Chris doesn’t need to know what Henry said to get the gist of it, and there’s no way in hell Chris is letting that happen. He’s had enough. He weaves his way towards them, hauling Henry up, taking the bulk of his weight. If that happens to pull him away from Peter, well. That’s a bonus. 

“I’ve got him,” he says. 

“Ah,” Henry says. “I was wondering when you’d show up.” 

Chris ignores him, and asks Peter, “How much did you drink?” 

“Not as much as he did,” Peter says archly. 

They drop Henry off at his cabin, the werewolf getting progressively handsier and laughing as he tries to pull Peter inside while Peter smiles indulgently and shrugs him off. It’s so late it’s early. The grounds are quiet, most of the crowd either still in the dining hall or retired for the night. 

“Did he ask you to join his pack?”

Peter slows down half a step, but doesn’t show any other tells. He doesn’t answer Chris. 

“Are you going to say yes?” Chris presses, his chest tight. Because Derek aside, what else is keeping Peter in Beacon Hills? Knowing Peter, he’d either finally cut ties, or convince Derek to go with him. He needs an answer. He needs a no. 

“I don’t see how it’s any of your business,” Peter says, and Chris knows that tone, that face. Peter is walling himself off, retreating into himself. 

“That’s why you’re here,” Chris says, following Peter into the cabin. “You’re going to leave Beacon Hills, but you don’t want to go omega. ”

Peter whirls around. “You’ve never cared what I did before. Don’t pretend you do now.” 

“I cared.” 

“Stop it,” Peter says. 

“Peter—”

“Shut up,” Peter hisses, and slams Chris against the wall, hand fisting in the front of his shirt. He’s kissing him in the next breath, angry biting things that hurt.

Kissing back is reflex by now, at least until his mind catches up with his mouth, and he remembers they’re in the middle of a conversation. But Peter is unrelenting, and Chris' Achilles’ heel has always been Peter. Any words are swallowed up, everything reduced to sensation: Peter tearing Chris' shirt from him; Peter sucking at his fingers; opening Peter up on nothing but spit and precome; how Peter shuddered and groaned his name, the exhale of his breath hot against his throat.

By the time Peter shoves Chris onto the bed and sinks down on his cock, Chris is thoroughly, utterly, unabashedly distracted.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The sheets are cool beside him when he wakes up. Chris lies there for ages, listening to the in and out of his own breathing. He can smell Peter on the pillow, that same deep and airy scent that hasn’t changed all these years. It isn’t as good as the real thing, but Chris has made do with less before. 

But what he’s starting to realise is that he doesn’t have to settle anymore. There’s nothing keeping him from taking exactly what he wants.

Peter didn’t have to invite him here. In fact, knowing Peter, he could have talked his way out of coming here entirely. But he hadn’t. Instead, he’d asked Chris along and agreed with minimal fuss when Chris insisted they take his car, and the drive up had been bearable. All right, downright companionable. The most they’d argued about was what radio station to listen to. Stupid, banal things. Peter's barbs lost their sting somewhere past the border into Oregon state, turning teasing rather than inflammatory. 

He caught himself humming along to the song playing, and when he glanced over to the passenger side, Peter had his face propped in his hand, mouthing the words quietly as he looked out the window. Like the years and complications between them had fallen away from his features, shed somewhere in the miles out from Beacon Hills. 

Maybe Peter asked him along without any ulterior motives, and just for his company. All things considered, this was a weekend getaway for two. They had worked well together last night. Hunted in tandem, moving as one, and it felt right. 

Peter was wrong to think that Chris didn't care. If he brought Chris along because he thought Chris would let him leave without a word, he's wrong on that count too. Because Chris has made that mistake too many times before, and he won't make it again. Not when he can do something about it.

But that's working off the assumption Peter is planning to go anywhere. 

Peter loved him once. Chris isn't under any delusion that he still does, but maybe there's something left of the boy who loved him. Sometimes Peter looks at him with some measure of fondness. 

He needs to talk to him.

Chris peels himself from the bed, throws his clothes on, and hurries out of the cabin.

He finds Peter swimming laps at the pool, rhythmic strokes that cleave through the water smoothly. There are a few other guests splashing in the shallow end, but despite the pool being heated, it's too cold out to sunbathe. 

Unless you're a werewolf, apparently. Henry is sunning on one of the beach chairs lining the pool, golden in the pale sun and watching Peter swim. He notices Chris, and waves at him. Chris ignores him. He strides to the pool’s edge. 

“Peter,” he says. “We need to talk.”

The chlorinated water laps at his boots. Peter keeps swimming. 

“I know you can hear me,” Chris says, and adds in the voice that never fails to focus every ounce of Peter’s attention on him, “Peter.” 

Waves surge up and over the side when Peter reaches his side of the pool again. He hauls himself out of the water, pushing his hair out of his face. Not a mark on him remains from the night before, not the bruises that had formed on his hips from where Chris held him tight, or the marks he had sucked onto his skin only to watch them fade. He hates it. 

Peter steps around Chris and to Henry, who hands him a towel and tracks the rivulets of water running down Peter’s neck when he turns to look at Chris. Chris sees him looking, and wishes he had his gun. Instead, he curls his hand around Peter’s wrist. “Come on.” 

“I thought you wanted to talk, not manhandle me,” Peter says, tugging free— or he would have, if Chris didn’t tighten his grip. Peter frowns. 

“Something wrong?” Henry is nearly plastered against Peter’s back, he’s standing that close, and Chris' grip tightens enough that Peter winces. A minute thing anyone else would have missed. 

He loosens up, and says curtly, “It’s private.” 

“Chris is having one of his hissy fits. I’ll take care of it.” 

“You sure?” Henry says. 

“You need to back off,” Chris says. 

“Looks to me like you’re the one who needs to back off. Peter and I were doing just fine before you came along.” 

Peter interrupts. “Please, spare me from the posturing. All right, Christopher, let’s talk.”

“Somewhere private.” 

Peter rolls his eyes. “I’ll see you at breakfast, Henry.” He leads Chris back towards the cabin. 

Chris sticks close, checking for any nosy werewolves over his shoulder. He ushers Peter ahead of him into the cabin, closing the door behind them. Peter crosses his arms. He hasn’t bothered to dry off beyond the bare minimum, and Chris suspects it’s because he wants to shower and wash the chlorine from his skin. 

“What was so important that you had to drag me back here?” 

“I don’t want you to leave Beacon Hills.” 

“That’s it?” Peter says. 

It’s everything. It’s everything because if Peter leaves, Chris has a feeling he won’t ever see him again. He could tell from the hunger in Henry’s eyes, the need to possess. He’s intimately familiar with that want when it comes to Peter. 

“I don’t want you to leave me,” he admits. “I wasn’t lying. I always cared about you, Peter. I still do.” 

“That’s funny, because you see, I cared about you once. I even told you how much I cared. But remember what you did? You left me anyway. So why shouldn’t I go? Why is it that only you’re allowed to leave me, Christopher?” 

“Don’t call me that,” Chris says. Peter only ever uses his full name when he’s mocking him, or furious. “I didn’t have a choice.” 

“Wrong. You always had a choice. You were just too scared to take it.” 

“Scared for you,” Chris snaps. “Gerard—”

“Oh, _Gerard_ ,” Peter says, “when will you understand? He was never going to care, you were never going to be good enough for him.” 

Peter isn’t telling Chris anything he doesn’t know, but it is everything Chris never admitted out loud when he was younger. No matter how many successful hunts he participated in, or how hard he tried, Gerard was never going to acknowledge him. Decades later, it still stings to hear it said out loud. But Peter is lashing out because that’s what he does when he’s hurting. 

Chris switches tracks. “Why did you ask me to come with you this weekend?” 

“What?” Peter says, thrown. 

“Scott and Stiles could have done this together. Missing two days of school wouldn’t have killed them.” 

“Great idea, why not throw both of them to the wolves?” 

“Derek, then,” Chris says. “I would have gone with him. Or you could have bribed Stiles. But you asked me.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, the werewolf to human ratio is a little skewed,” Peter says. “And considering Lydia and your daughter hate me, it didn’t leave me with a ton of options.” 

“From what I can tell, skipping out is an option.”

Peter goes quiet. He says, “It is.”

“Then why did you ask me to come with you?”

The conversation is going in circles, Chris trying to force it into a straight line with everything he's got. There has to be a reason why beyond process of elimination, because the easy, obvious solution would have been to avoid the gathering entirely. But here they are. 

He watches the furrow between Peter's eyes deepen, cataloguing the flex of his hand right before Peter starts to pace.

“Because,” he says, and stops. “I don't remember. I can't remember.” 

Peter touches the back of his neck, eyes wide. The sound of his breathing is loud in the room, and he's pale right down to his lips, nails digging into his skin. 

“Peter?” Chris says, taking a step forward.

“No.” Peter backs up straight into the wall, snarling, eyes bright. He's trembling. “No, no, not again.” 

He's never seen Peter this terrified before, not even before Derek slashed his throat. Chris' approach is slow and careful, like Peter is a frightened animal liable to spook. Both hands up, palm facing Peter, soothing nonsense spilling from his mouth. He manages to coax Peter's hand from his neck, examining the healing damage from his own nails, and the otherwise unblemished skin. 

“There's nothing there,” he says, “it's okay, Peter.” 

Peter laughs, the sound of it brittle. “That's the problem. Nothing is the problem, because someone stole it. Your precious reason why.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chris refuses point blank to let Peter go unaccompanied to the dining hall, which is negotiated from refusing to let Peter go at all after an argument on whether or not Chris could keep Peter corralled in the cabin against his will, and Peter pointing out that not showing up would be suspicious. That sets off another line of questioning: when did Peter have his memory stolen? And how? If an alpha did it, there would be corresponding marks. 

Peter’s neck is undamaged, a blank canvas of smooth skin that never fails to make Chris want to bite and kiss. 

Leaving the gathering ahead of schedule gets vetoed by Peter, who says with a steely absolution that he isn’t leaving until he’s found the person responsible for this and made them pay. Chris is inclined to agree. No matter how much he would prefer to have Peter back in Beacon Hills, away from anyone else who might try to steal him, he wants it to be of Peter’s own accord, and not out of necessity. 

Even if he likes the way Peter settles and calms when he rests his palm over the nape of his neck and squeezes more than he should. 

Breakfast is a terse, tense affair. Chris isn’t made for sitting around and waiting; he prefers doing. Patience is a learned trait for him. 

At least he has the petty satisfaction of watching Peter brush Henry off. Peter sticks close to Chris instead, either because Peter’s never had the best track record with alphas, or because Chris is familiar, and Peter trusts him on some base level that can’t be altered. Chris prefers to think it’s the latter. 

“Everything okay, Peter?” Henry asks, snagging Peter’s elbow after breakfast.  
Chris keeps himself from interfering, but only because Peter hates what he calls Chris’ knight in shining armor syndrome. 

“Peachy,” Peter says, tugging his elbow free. “Where’s Cassandra?” 

“Probably lying in,” Henry says, frowning. “Are you sure you’re fine?” His eyes drift to Chris, who is impassive and immovable at Peter’s side. His frown deepens when Chris wraps his arm around Peter’s waist. They eliminated Henry as a possible suspect, but according to Peter, that doesn’t rule out the handful of gifted humans present. 

Cassandra is one of them. 

“I wanted to ask her something.” Peter absently pats Chris’ arm, and in the same breath, twists himself free. “Be right back.” 

“I’ll go with you,” Chris says.

“Actually, there’s something I wanna talk to you about,” Henry tells Chris. 

“Try not to kill each other,” Peter says, and is gone before Chris can get a word in edgewise. Chris exhales, and tries to force back the growing migraine throbbing behind his eyes. Try not to kill each other. Right. 

Dirt gives way to grass the closer towards the edge of the forest they get, most of it gone brown and dead for the winter. But the trees are mostly evergreens, vibrant even in the late fall chill. They’re just far away enough from the main campsite that nobody will interrupt them, but not in the middle of nowhere by far. 

“Look, I get it. You’re not happy that Peter’s leaving your pack, fine, but—”

“Peter isn’t leaving,” Chris says. 

Henry makes a vague sound of disbelief. “He agreed this morning.” 

“Sure,” Chris says, smiling with all his teeth showing, “but that was this morning. As far as I’m concerned, until he actually joins you, he’s still mine.” 

“Just because you’re fucking doesn’t make it more,” Henry says, mild as anything. It irritates Chris, but he’s played this game plenty of times before. “Especially not if Peter doesn’t think the same. I asked him if he wanted to bring anyone from his old pack with him, but you know what he said? He said there wasn’t anyone else.” 

It hurts. Of course it hurts, but Chris isn’t stupid. Whatever happened to Peter happened after he left the cabin and before Chris found him at the pool earlier. Peter wasn’t going to say yes, or he would have said so last night to twist the knife that much deeper. 

“You don’t know Peter,” Chris says with finality. He walks away from Henry, and is relieved when Henry doesn’t follow him. He doesn’t know what he would have done if he did. His hands are trembling. He should have asked Henry if he was behind this, but it isn’t like the werewolf would confess to it.

Chris is halfway across the camp when the howl splits the air, and he bolts toward it. 

There is already a crowd gathered by the side of the dining hall. Chris scans the faces. No sign of Peter. When he shoulders his way through, Taylor pushes by him, her hand pressed to her mouth. Chris stops her, concerned. “Hey. Are you okay?”

She shakes her head, squeaks out a no, and flees. 

He sees why when he reaches the front of the group. There’s a body lying on the ground, throat ripped out, and two werewolves snapping and snarling at each other, restrained by a few other werewolves. Chris’ mind supplies names to go with the faces. He recognises the body. It’s the spark from Los Angeles; he was on the list that Chris and Peter compiled of possible suspects. 

“Someone tell me what’s going on here, and make it fast.” Lillian, flanked by her betas, alpha authority reverberating behind every word, cuts through the bystanders. They part like water around her.

Chris’ attention is torn from the spectacle when Peter slinks up to his side, Cassandra in tow. His eyes sweep over everything, and he goes _oh_ quietly. Then he jerks his head at Chris, who follows him without question. 

They end up in their cabin, Peter’s grip on Cassandra marking her wrist up red and angry. She’s tight-lipped, eyes glittering. This is Occam’s Razor, Chris figures. 

“Did she do it?” he asks, just to be sure. 

“Right in one,” Peter says. “Cassandra here has been very naughty.”

The rage blinds Chris for a second, washing over his eyes until he wrestles it back under control. A good hunter doesn’t let emotion blind him. He takes two steady breaths, and paces. Stops in front of Cassandra, and says, “You saw what happened out there?”

She nods. It’s nearly imperceptible. 

“A case of mistaken identity,” Peter comments. “We aren’t the only ones who’ve noticed someone’s been poking around where they shouldn't be. Stealing things.” 

“That man died because one of those werewolves out there thought he was the culprit,” Chris tells Cassandra. 

“They might be interested to know that they have the wrong person. Believe it or not, I don’t want to kill you. I do like Henry, and he’d be so upset if you were to turn up dead. But if he had something to do with this, well. Let’s just say I won’t be so lenient.” 

“It was my own idea,” Cassandra says. “He wanted you to join the pack, but anyone with two eyes could tell that you weren’t going to. Not while you were hung up on him.” Her eyes flick to Chris. 

Peter goes silent. Chris takes over. 

“Give it back, and we’ll let you go,” he says against every ingrained instinct to eliminate the threat. The last thing he wants is for the weekend to get any more complicated than it already has. “We won’t say anything about what you did, and you get to walk out of here alive.” 

“It’s a good deal,” Peter says. “Of course, I won’t be joining your pack anymore, but that’s a small price to pay, all things considered.” 

Cassandra bites her lip, sizing Chris and Peter up like she’s wondering if she can take both of them down, or trying to gauge how serious they are. Chris stares back at her, and watches the defeat crawl over her features. She nods. 

Peter releases, and she shakes out her wrist. Turns on the chair towards him, and holds her hands up. Chris is tense, ready to move if she tries anything. Peter leans down, and Cassandra rests her fingertips against his temples. A soft glow surrounds them. Peter sighs, the sound low and shivery. He goes loose, and when his eyes open, they’re bright blue. 

“There,” Cassandra says, sour as anything. 

Chris yanks her out of the chair, and towards the door. He leans in and murmurs, “Try that again and I’ll personally go up to Washington to take care of you and your brother. Get out of here before I put you down for putting a finger on Peter.” 

Cassandra doesn’t linger for parting banter. She scurries off. 

“My knight in shining armor,” Peter says from behind Chris. 

Chris turns. “I’m allowed to care. How do you feel?” 

“Better.” 

“Was she telling the truth?”

“About what?” 

“Her alpha having nothing to do with this,” Chris says. 

“Oh, I’m sure he had a hand in it. Maybe not me personally, but it’s likely he asked her to find out what the packs’ nearest and dearest secrets were.” 

“He doesn’t seem the type.” 

“Trust me,” Peter says dryly. “Henry didn’t get where he is today by being all sunshine and rainbows.” 

“You need to tell him you changed your mind.” 

“I do, do I?” Peter says. He’s smiling. 

“Peter,” Chris growls. 

“Christopher.” 

“What did she take from you?” he asks. 

“I think you already know,” Peter says. 

Chris does, but he wants to hear it from Peter’s mouth. Wants to touch him too, so he does, reeling Peter in and kissing him, cupping the back of his head. Peter kisses back, devouring Chris with a single minded neediness that has every nerve in Chris lighting up. They stumble to the bed, Chris pushing Peter down under him. 

He takes his time peeling the clothes off of Peter, holding him down by the wrists and refusing to go any faster regardless of Peter’s growled complaints. 

The griping goes from sour to sweet, Peter moving restlessly against Chris before long, head tossed back and the long line of his neck exposed. He shows his throat to Chris like it’s nothing, but it’s everything. Peter doesn’t do anything without calculation, not even when he’s moaning beneath Chris. 

“You aren’t going anywhere,” Chris says, biting at Peter’s neck, the offered submission. “You’re mine.” 

“Yours,” Peter agrees, breathless, twisting his fingers through Chris’ hair. “Fuck, Chris, just—”

Chris doesn’t give Peter a chance to finish talking, kissing him relentlessly. They move in tandem. Peter is pliant and responsive under Chris, clutching Chris to him. There will be bruises later in the shape of Peter’s fingertips from where he dug them in, body arched like a bow under Chris, hot and tight around him. 

“No,” Chris rumbles when Peter reaches for his leaking cock, pinning his arms back down on either side of his head. He rocks his hips into Peter, who whines in complaint and squeezes down on Chris. Chris loses his words for a moment, and manages to grit out after, “I want you to come like this. You can do it.” 

He drives into Peter, and he knows he’s hitting Peter’s prostate each time from how he spasms and whimpers, moving back desperately. Chris can’t stop touching and biting Peter, marks forming and fading on his skin. Can’t stop praising him, telling him how good he feels, how perfect he is. 

Peter keens when he comes, legs wrapped tight around Chris and come spattering across his stomach. Chris fucks him through it until Peter is shaking, twisting and squeezing down on his cock. He thrusts balls deep inside Peter and comes with a groan. 

Come trickles out of Peter after Chris pulls out, down to his thigh. Chris runs his fingers through that and then drags them over the mess on Peter’s stomach, rubbing their combined scents right into his skin. Peter trembles against him, worn out but sated. He goes to Chris easily enough when Chris gathers him back up in his arms, sighing and pressing close. 

For the first time in a long time, Chris knows that when he wakes up, things will be all right, and Peter will be there in his arms. 

And that’s all he ever wanted.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The remainder of the weekend blurs by. Peter retracts his decision to leave for Washington under Chris’ supervision, to Henry’s obvious disappointment. Chris can’t say he feels particularly bad for the alpha, but at least Cassandra is nowhere to be seen. 

They play nice with the rest of the mixed bag of werewolves and humans, the earlier murder apparently not shocking enough to put a damper on the festivities, but made for good gossip. Peter tells him it’s because it’s happened before and will likely happen again, and that it’s out of their jurisdiction anyway. They take down another buck on the final hunt of the weekend, and Chris kisses Peter under the moonlight with the blood still slippery on his hands, getting it all over both of them. Peter complains about it for the rest of the night, but not without a twitch to his lips. 

“Remind me again why I brought you along,” he says while they’re hiking out of the woods. 

“Isn’t that supposed to be a secret?” Chris says. 

Peter smiles. Really smiles, not a smirk or a grin or a snarl, and says, “Are you going to keep it safe for me, Chris?” 

“Always,” Chris says.


End file.
